


Across a Dark Room

by JodyNorman



Series: The Legacy [5]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen, Psychic Bond, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JodyNorman/pseuds/JodyNorman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A serial killer is on the loose, and Jim is on the case.  A woman is stalking Blair, and he's in her clutches.  Will he survive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across a Dark Room

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published in the zine Sensory Overload #2

Jim rolled over, away from the moonlight across his eyes. But the lunar rays followed him, and at last he sighed and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. If he was going to close the curtains, he might as well go the bathroom while he was at it.

Five minutes later, he padded out of the bathroom, then, drawn by the cool night, he pushed the balcony doors open and stepped outside, moving to rest his arms on the low wall and look out across the expanse of city. Crickets chirped, and he sighed, relaxing to the sound.

There was something strange about the night that he couldn't pin down. No, he decided slowly, it wasn't the night, but he himself. Pondering it, he realized that he was, for the first time in a very long while, simply happy. The word stopped him short, and he prodded the feeling, like a child using his tongue to check out a sore tooth, expecting it to hurt. It didn't.

He was happy. When was the last time he'd been happy? He shifted, looking back over memories. There had been some times with Caroline, but their early joy in each other had soon been undermined by her resentment of his stubbornness to open up and share his life. There had been some times in the jungle where he'd felt like this, mainly after he'd been working closely with his mentor in training his senses. Funny how he remembered those times now, and in the five years between coming home and his Sentinel senses wakening he hadn't. But even those memories were overlaid with the guilt of being the only survivor of all his men, and the stress of working in a different culture against enemy fighters. Times of happiness there had been few and far between. And before that, well, no, not much happiness there, either.

But now… Now, he realized, automatically reaching for the reassuring sound of his roommate's heartbeat, there was Blair. Funny. The anthropologist insisted he open up and share his life, too, just like Caroline had, but with Blair it was the act of a partner, not a wife, and for whatever reason that made a difference. Blair… made a difference.

 _I guess_ , Jim thought, yawning, _that now I have someone to come home to_. He yawned again, then headed back inside to bed.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Stay here!"

Blair inhaled as he watched Jim take after the suspects, stepping back to lean against the building they had just exited. What an afternoon. First the briefing on the serial murder case, then he and Jim followed the only lead common to two of the five victims – two men seemingly known to both. But once confronted with the grim officer, the men had broken and run, an act which immediately shifted their suspect status from "possible" to "confirmed."

A car pulled up in front of the building, and after his initial duck-and-hide, Blair peered out, breaking shelter with a wide smile. "Caryn! What're you doin' here? I thought you were still studying with that tribe in Ecuador. How'd you ever find–?" The puff of sweet-scented dust in his face broke his speech like a hammer, and he reeled, then crumbled.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Sandburg! You can come out now," Jim called as he approached the warehouse, frowning when silence greeted him. "Blair?"

Stepping up to the double doors where he'd left his friend, he halted as the scent hit him. Sweet, very sweet and pungent. Jim sneezed, then sneezed again. Powerful as the smell was to him, he could tell that to ordinary human senses it had already faded past recognition, which meant some time had passed since its use.

And Sandburg was gone.

Jim searched the building and the surrounding area, but kept coming back to the double doors where he'd left the anthropologist. Blair wouldn't have just wandered off, and he wouldn't have gone willingly with someone, either. Not without telling Jim, or at least leaving him a note, and there was nothing. And the concrete driveway allowed no sign of a struggle, not even to his heightened senses.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Well, sir, the logical assumption is that the two men I was chasing circled back and grabbed him. But it just doesn't feel right," Jim said a short time later, looking across Simon's desk to his friend.

Simon shook his head. "Why not? Look, Jim," he said when the younger officer hesitated, "Forensics is scouring the area – if there's anything there that can give us a lead to what happened, they'll find it. Including that smell that got you. They're even taking air samples and sweeping the driveway in the hopes that it was a powder of some sort. But why couldn't the perps have circled back and grabbed Sandburg? It makes sense. And he does fit the profile, what we have of one."

Jim looked out the window, then back to Simon. "I don't know, sir, but it just doesn't feel right. I've been feeling on edge the last few days, and I think that might have something to do with it. Maybe something was happening peripherally that I just wasn't paying attention to. And that smell wasn't like any chemical I've ever smelled before – I don't think it's related to the case."

Simon looked at him for a long moment, not without sympathy. "Jim, I'd rather he weren't grabbed by those guys either. These murders are gruesome, and Blair's a good kid. I'd hate to see him a victim of this maniac. But the smell doesn't bear you out. The killer deals with chemicals, and it could easily be some combination of stuff you haven't bumped into before. My guess is, the faster we find the perp, the faster we find Sandburg."

Jim shook his head slowly. "I'll keep it in mind, but I don't think so, sir. I get the feeling time is running out, though."

"Time is running out for the next victim of this killer, too, Jim. Find him, and in all probability you find Blair. Don't forget that."

Jim nodded, but his eyes were doubtful as he exited the office.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _He doesn't get it_ , Jim thought as he paced toward his car. _No one gets it. No one ever has_.

The relationship between himself and Blair just didn't fit in the world he lived in. In the jungle, his mentor had worried because he hadn't had a partner, but he had brushed it off, saying he liked working alone. He hadn't understood, then, what kind of partner the older man had been talking about, and everything he'd said about it only made Jim shy away from it. Truth to tell, the descriptions had scared him silly, and frustrated him, too, with the realization that the words didn't mean to him what they meant to the shaman.

Now he himself faced the same thing, in other people's reactions, and he understood, for the first time, the place that existed in the tribal culture for relationships like his and Blair's. The tribe would've understood what lay between them, the trust, the shared vision, the dangers. But here, people looked askance at the two of them, wondering what commonalities lay between them to make them so close, and found nothing. His fellow officers were friendly to Blair, even accepting him as a quasi-reliable person on the streets, but they didn't understand what lay between Jim and Blair, and expected Jim's first loyalty to be to them, his fellow officers, not to his civilian friend, if the chips went down. There was simply no place in the world the officers knew for the relationship they saw, and though they all respected the anthropologist – they'd seen him keep his head in too many difficult situations not to – they couldn't fathom what lay between the two of them.

Jim stopped beside his car, gazing off toward the forested hills, his mouth tight. Even Simon, who came the closest to understanding them, couldn't really grasp it. Most of the time he was really good, but there were times, like now, when Jim could swear he felt Blair's panicked breathing running through him, hear the echo of his heartbeat, and feel the missing space beside him, a space that yawned like a cavern, black and empty. And then he saw the faint lack of understanding in the back of Simon's eyes, and felt frustration sting him as he tried to describe their relationship in words that just didn't fit.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Blair counted off the strokes of the clock he could hear in another room. Two o'clock in the afternoon. He lay on what he thought was a wheeled bed – at least, it felt like a hospital bed – staring upward, frozen in the stillness imposed by the South American paralysis powder. All he could do was breathe and think and worry.

He had met Caryn Watson while studying a tribe in Ecuador. A white woman of uncertain ego and certain instability, Blair had kindly catalogued her as a "groupie" of the tribal lifestyle myths that ran rampant throughout American media. She wanted community, and though the anthropologist hadn't understood how she'd located the tribe in the first place, he hoped she would find what she needed there. They were a kindly people, and Blair felt at home with them. He left reluctantly when his grant ran out, honored by the adoption ceremony they gave him, but knowing that his world was elsewhere. Caryn had seemingly enjoyed the ceremony, but then vanished, returning at its end to wave farewell to Blair with the rest of the tribe. That was the last the anthropologist had seen of her and certainly the last he'd thought of her. And now…

"Ten hours to your life."

If Blair could have jumped, he would have. Caryn's voice was sudden, and she moved into his peripheral vision a moment later. "Ten hours to your life," she repeated, her voice silky. "And then the last of your power and your life with the tribe will be mine." She trailed fingers down his face, tracing his features with a warm touch that forced a mental shiver through Blair. "I have been with you these past few days, you know," she purred, the touch moving down his throat to his flannel shirt, the first button undone. She caressed his collarbones, then moved on, unfastening the second button, then the third.

Blair cringed under the touch, but not a muscle moved as he stared upward.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Jim sat in his car, listlessly finishing off the remains of lunch, and remembering that morning's briefing with Blair.

"All right, you two, listen up," Simon commanded, staring Blair into silence as he sized up the stranger in the office. "Detective Corwin Landon, this is Jim Ellison," he motioned to Jim, who shook hands with the man, noting the firm handclasp appreciatively, "and Blair Sandburg. He's an observer who works pretty closely with Jim. Landon is from Phoenix," he added as Blair shook hands with the detective, then moved back to stand beside Jim.

"This is pretty nasty stuff we've got here, and I want you both to be prepared," Simon said, his voice sober as he studied the two men.

"No problem, sir," Jim said, shifting a step closer to Blair and studying Landon, who watched them both with a neutral expression. "So what've we got?"

Simon exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "These ritual murders we've been seeing are only one part of a much larger picture. Landon, you have the floor."

The man nodded. "Ten months ago someone started committing ritual murders in Phoenix. Same MO as these: the victim's throat is cut, their genitalia mutilated, and their killer douses them with Listerine and Chlorox and torches them."

"Uh," said Blair, swallowing hard.

Jim shook his head. "Sounds like our madman, all right – same choice of victims?"

Landon nodded. "Men, young and old, all races, even gay and straight, and no connection between them that we could find."

"Hmm," said Jim thoughtfully. "How many victims total?"

"Six," Landon said sourly. "They ran for five months, then vanished for four, then started turning up here."

"Sounds like he moved," Blair said. "What about a psychological profile?" He shifted uneasily, and Jim smiled at him faintly, recognizing the memories of Lash that underlay the question.

"'Bout the same as the one we built from our three," Simon said, his gaze resting understandingly on Blair. "Probably male, left-handed, a larger man, fairly strong. Probably abused, obviously has a psycho-sexual problem of some sort that he's acting out in these murders."

Blair and Jim nodded, and the Cascade officer sighed. "Well, not much, but every little helps. Are you going to be around?" he asked Landon, who shook his head.

"I'm needed back home, but I'll leave you my phone number in case you need to get hold of me. Feel free to call any time." He handed Jim a card, which the detective pocketed before shaking hands as the man left, nodding to Blair on the way out.

Now, only hours later, Jim again tested the idea that Blair might be a victim of the murderer, but shook his head. It just felt wrong, and he trusted his hunches. But if the murderer didn't have Blair, then who did?

His cellular beeped, and he picked it up, pushing the on-button with a thumb. "Ellison."

"Jim, the forensics people just got back to me on that smell you got." Simon's voice was slow, and Jim sighed, already sure he knew the story.

"They did get a few grains of a powder off the driveway, but it's an exotic compound and they couldn't identify it without more to work with." The captain hesitated. "I'm sorry, Jim. But at least we know now that something was used on Blair. It's real."

 _I already knew that_! Jim inhaled, held it, then released it. "Yeah, thanks, Simon. I'm on it."

"Yeah, good luck, Jim. And – don't forget the murder case. That's still your first priority, and chances are good the two are connected."

 _I don't think so_. "Yeah, I'll see you later, Simon."

Alone again, Jim sat for a moment, thinking, then closed his eyes and leaned back, relaxing as much as possible.

_Okay, Jim, now I want you to go back… back… back… back in time. Remember the moment, relive the moment…_

Jim tried to focus on Blair's words, trying not to let the hollowness of his friend's absence swallow up their sense. Just remember the exercise, that was all, and relax…

He stood again in front of the garage door, the strange scent again in his nostrils.

_Okay, focus, focus down, Jim. Enhance your sense of smell, go on, focus, just on the smell. It's strong now, Jim, you can smell it easily…_

He could, and tried not to gag. So sweet… But how did it make him feel? What were his reactions?

He fought back a sneeze, inhaling deeply. His fingers tingled, then his toes, then his tongue. He tried to swallow, finding it hard. _Like Novocain_ , he thought dimly in the back of his mind.

_Focus, Jim. Focus down…_

His hands tingled now, and his feet were numb. Hard to move…

_Okay, Jim, okay! Come on, snap out of it. Don't you zone on me, Jim, come on!_

Jim's eyes opened, and he blinked, then inhaled. He felt… strange. He took another breath, then lifted his head from the seat cushion, or tried to.

He couldn't move.

He took a deep breath, fighting back panic, and catalogued himself. He could feel his body, but control over it was nil. He could breathe, and blink, and his mind worked just fine, but his body could just as well be in Timbuktu for all the good it was doing him.

 _Okay_ , he thought, _just relax. Wait for a minute. This was only an exercise; it should wear off soon; I didn't actually inhale that much of the stuff…_

Five minutes later he could move his foot. And half an hour later he was fine, if rather shaken.

 _A paralysis drug_ , he thought grimly, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand that shook slightly. _If someone blew that into Blair's face, he didn't have a chance. Might even knock you out for the first few minutes, if it was strong enough._

He thought for a long moment, then turned the key in the ignition, shifted into drive, and slid out of his parking place.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"So you were paralyzed?"

Jim nodded, eying the woman with a hope he tried to mask. "Yeah, ring any bells?"

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully, focusing on the back wall of the pharmacy. "Let me think a moment."

Jim mentally backed away to give her some space, trying to restrain his eagerness. Melissa Gyndale was a pharmacist who owned the small business in which he stood, and if anyone could help him, it would be her. Dedicated to offering her clients a selection of alternative medicines as well as the more common ones, she also had knowledge of the pharmaceutical black market and had freely offered her services to Jim ever since he'd helped her with a stalker two years before. Now he watched her wrinkle her brow and stare at the back wall, his heart sinking as her frown deepened.

She blinked, then looked back at him, her dark eyes concerned. "It sounds like tinzepan, a derivative of curare. Someone was in here a few days ago, asking if I carried it."

Jim's heart leaped, and his excitement must have shown on his face, because she half-smiled. "No, I didn't have any, and didn't offer to help her find anyone who did. Tinzepan can be dangerous except for in the hands of an experienced medical professional. Curare paralyzes the lungs as well as everything else, and the victim asphyxiates. Some derivatives of curare have that characteristic as well. It's easy to misjudge a dosage, and an overdose can kill a person." She shrugged. "She left in a snit."

"What did she look like?"

"Her eyes were brown, her hair black – not dark, but black, glossy. Five feet four inches, I'd say at a guess – she was just a little shorter than me, and I'm five-foot-six. She was dressed in a casual pantsuit of purple and white, and she wore jewelry that looked exotic."

"Exotic?"

She paused thoughtfully. "They looked South American, actually. I have a friend who works over there, transporting pharmaceutical alternatives to me, and he gives me occasional gifts of tribal stuff. This reminded me of those, but I didn't get a close look."

Jim chewed his lip. South American and tribal… Had Blair done some work up there which was coming back to haunt him? "Was she South American?"

"No." Melissa's voice was sure, her reply immediate. "No, she was an American, that was obvious. But…"

"What?"

Melissa looked down, then up at him. "You know how you meet some people, and after a few minutes with them you just know they're not really all there, but you don't know why you think so?"

He nodded, his gaze expectant.

"Well, she was. Not all there, I mean. I don't know why I thought so, or what tipped me off, but I don't think she was all that stable." She shook her head at Jim, her expression sober. "I wouldn't want one of my friends at her mercy, Jim. For his sake, I hope you find her, soon."

"Me, too," he said, his gut tightening at her words. His sense of Blair, if it was that and not his imagination, rose higher in his soul, humming through him, and he shifted, trying not to follow his urge to go running out the door and search the neighborhood house to house. "Any chance you could sketch a picture of her?"

She nodded, reaching for a notebook pad, then grimacing as the phone rang. With a resigned shrug, she swept up the receiver, pulling the notebook closer and picking up a pencil as she cradled the phone between her head and shoulder.

Jim turned to observe the store, his eyes flicking over the two older women in the farthest row and the graying pharmacist who stood severely behind the glass casing at the back counter. A young man, early twenties, with long hair and worn tennis shoes with neon green laces, sauntered through the door. He was wearing a frayed t-shirt that just met the establishment's shirt policy and the baggy, holey jeans that seemed so much in vogue in the younger generation. Jim watched as the twenty-some-year-old made his way to an isle advertising anti-smoking treatments and stood perusing the selection for a moment, then, choosing a package of Nicorette gum and a box of the Nicotrol CQ, he made his way to the pharmacist in the back.

Jim's eyebrows rose at the man's obvious intention, and he shook his head, reminding himself that stereotypes of clothing and hair styles were dangerous for a police officer to engage in. Melissa's phone call was winding down, and he watched for a moment longer as the young man held out the two packages to the pharmacist, obviously asking a question. The older man stiffened even more, if that was possible, and his mouth tightened as he gave a curt answer. The younger man looked tired, but nodded courteously and turned to head toward a cashier, replacing one of the packages on the shelf as he passed.

Jim glanced back at the pharmacist, frowning at the intense expression the man wore as he stared after the young man, watching him exit with what Ellison could only describe as an obsessed look. Shaking his head, the detective turned back to Melissa, deciding that some of the older generation seemed to have a harder time with stereotypes than he did and reminding himself again that he didn't want to be that way when he grew older. Older officers with that kind of rigidity tended to make mistakes on the street, endangering themselves and others with their refusal to consider alternatives. Of course, with Blair around, he wasn't likely to get rigid any time soon. But that brought his focus back to his friend with a snap, and he quickly turned as he heard the phone hit its cradle. "Well?"

"Here you go," she said cheerfully, handing him a sketch of a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, with something about the face that made him uneasy. "That's as good as I can do on short notice." The phone rang again, and she nodded to him as she picked it up. "Good luck, Jim."

He nodded to her, smiling in thanks and turned to the outside door, exiting behind the two older women and heading toward his truck.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The phone rang, and Jim picked it up, pushing the receive button as he stopped at the light only a block from home. "Ellison."

"Jim, glad I caught you." Simon's voice was calm, but the detective caught the edge of unease underlying the voice and sat up straighter. "Those two guys you were chasing this morning? We caught them."

Jim inhaled sharply, but Simon's next words cut off his sudden hope. "Jim, they don't know a thing about the murders, or Blair."

The light turned green, and Jim automatically pulled into the intersection, turning down the street that he knew as well as his own name and parking in front of his apartment. Pushing the lever into park, he turned his full attention to the conversation. "What do you mean, they don't know a thing? They ran this morning."

Simon sighed, and in his mind Jim could see him lean back in his chair at the his office. A small creak echoed over the line, making the mental vision that much more solid. "We caught them bungling a burglary of a local grocery store, two hours ago. They were planning it when you burst in on them, and they ran, figuring they'd been caught. I didn't want to bother you with them unless we had something, so I ran their questioning myself." He sighed again. "They don't know a thing, Jim. I'm sure of that."

"Damn," Jim said softly.

"Yeah." Simon inhaled, then swallowed. "I'm sorry, Jim. Now I'm not sure who's got Blair, or what's going on with him. Maybe it's someone the two of you put away, out of jail or something. I think you'd better come in and check over the records, see who's out, escaped, such-like."

Ellison shook his head, forgetting Simon couldn't see the move. Frustration hummed through him again, sharper this time. Simon was assuming something sane, something real, something reasonable. This wasn't reasonable, and Blair wouldn't be found in that place. "I don't think so, Simon."

Silence. "You don't think so."

"No, sir, I don't. Wherever Blair is, whoever has him, I won't find him in those records. I know that. I've got some leads to follow, and–"

"Jim, Blair could die while you're out chasing daydreams. Come back and check out the people who have a grudge against him and you. That's the way to go, not out there wandering around with a wish-list, for God's sake!"

Jim inhaled through his teeth, keeping his temper with a tremendous effort. "No, Simon. I'm following the leads I've got. I'll get back to you if I need you." He clicked the off button to the ringer with a vicious stab of the finger, dropping it on the seat. Leaning forward, he rested his arms on the wheel and buried his face in them, trying to deny the desperation echoing along his veins.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Jim stood in the doorway to Blair's room, his gaze roaming across the furniture, halting on the paper-littered desk. Taking a breath, he stepped into the room, setting his teeth as Blair's familiar scent zinged through him. Strong enough through the rest of the house, here it was positively overwhelming, and he fought back a shudder as he stopped beside the desk, starting to paw his way through the stacks.

 _How do you do it, Sandburg?_ he wondered as he worked his way through the desk. _Keep track of everything the way you do in such a mess? Ought to send you off to boot camp._

He could hear Blair's snort. "No way, man. That place is, like, way too regimented for me. Dissertation paperwork is bad enough, but add that to my stress level? Uh-huh, no way, Jim. Forget it."

He sighed at the many-times repeated conversation, his lips twitching. He was halfway across the desk now, and he reached for an open envelope, Blair's name scrawled across it in uncertain writing, a piece of folded paper peeking through the torn edges. Smoothing it out, he frowned as his eyes skimmed through the words, written in a soft, feminine writing that somehow made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

The words were meaningless in and of themselves, flowery promises that spoke to wide eyes and demure looks. He remembered the letter now, remembered Blair's annoyed grimace as he'd tossed it into his backpack yesterday morning when they'd picked up the mail on their way out. Sandburg had mentioned some sorority girls' pranks when he read it, and Jim hadn't paid much attention at the time, but now, he remembered what his partner had said – seemed that a group of sorority girls had been sending letters and flowers to a select number of the TAs across departments. Jim glanced around, noticing the spray of carnations that lay in the trash basket near the desk, and nodded. So why didn't this strike him as the same?

He weighed the letter in his hand a moment, then spun, forging his way out of the room with half-closed eyes, refusing to look around the space that echoed with his partner's absence. Taking the letter into the living room, he sank down onto the couch, staring down at the written words. The writer promised a meeting, and said that Blair would then recognize her true worth to him. By themselves, the words meant nothing, but now…

He sank back onto the cushions, weariness suddenly claiming him. Damn it, but he missed Sandburg. The place didn't feel like home anymore, and he sighed. Or rather, it felt like home one step removed, just out of reach…

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The clock chimed seven as Blair listened helplessly from the couch. Evening already, God, that morning seemed so very far away, and tomorrow morning… No, he wouldn't think about that. Damn this drug. He still couldn't move, not a muscle, not even shift his gaze or close his eyes, though at least he could blink and swallow. He supposed he should be grateful for that, or he would've been in agony all afternoon. But the hours were so long when all he could do was stare at the same spot on the ceiling. Still, at least he was alone.

A subconscious shiver echoed down his back. Lying there, unable to resist Caryn's earlier advances, had been worse in some ways than dealing with Lash. At least with Lash he'd been able to talk back until the psychopath had forced the drugs down his throat. And Jim had turned up so quickly on the heels of that event that he hadn't had time to realize the horror of being wordless in the man's insane grasp. But dealing with Caryn's touch on his skin as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt, tracing her fingers across his bare chest and down to his pants… God, that had been horrible. He had fought back panic as her touch drifted lower, and when she had finally started unbuttoning his pants he'd been really afraid for a moment that he was going to lose it completely. There was a certain brand of terror that could only be found at the depths of complete victimization, and for a few moments there he experienced it.

And then she had abruptly turned away, almost like she'd completely forgotten him as she left the room, the front door slamming a few minutes later. Even paralyzed he could feel the icy sweat inching down his back, and it took several hours for him to recover, since none of the usual means of relief were available to him. Unable even to take a deep breath, it was hard to relax, and all he could do was talk himself down off the adrenalin high, using all the self-knowledge that years of meditation and feedback gave him.

A low singing announced Caryn's entrance, and Blair took a breath, straining uselessly to move. Nothing happened, and he gave up, tracking her with his ears instead. She approached, humming softly as she grabbed his bed and rolled it toward another room.

This one was dark, and he blinked as he entered it, waiting for his eyes to adjust. From the flickering light around him, he surmised candles, and his thought was borne out when Caryn proceeded to crank his bed up, swinging him into a sitting position. It was an immense relief to look at something other than the ceiling, and he blinked again, focusing with difficulty.

He was looking at a picture of himself, wrapped in black yarn, and his lips tightened, then abruptly forgot about his surroundings as he realized that simple fact. He'd moved! And earlier, he'd inhaled when she'd entered, without needing to. He blinked again, managing to shift his gaze just slightly from the picture to Caryn and back again, and sighed silently. The drug was finally starting to wear off. Now it was a race between his body's processing of the compound and Caryn's intentions for him, and maybe, just maybe, he could win that race.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Jim stood in the small house, looking down at the still figure of a young man, mercifully covered by a sheet. Oblivious to the familiar police bustle around him, he swallowed, trying hard to shut out the almost overwhelming smell of Chlorox and Listerine, and reached for the sheet.

"It's not Blair, Jim."

The sentinel glanced up as the tall African-American halted beside him. "I know."

"It's the same as all the others," Simon said simply, tacitly offering his officer the opportunity to spare himself the grisly sight.

Jim nodded, and lifted the sheet, then, startled, hiked it higher. Simon looked away, even the veteran cop avoiding the mutilated figure. "Come on, Ellison, drop it. Leave the poor bastard in peace."

"I know him, Simon," Jim said, laying the sheet over the corpse again and standing up.

Simon turned sharply. "Who?"

Jim inhaled and held it, then released it in a long sigh. "I saw him this afternoon, buying something at a pharmacy."

The captain's eyes narrowed, and Jim described the incident, leaving out why he'd been at the pharmacy in the first place.

"Well," Simon said when he finished, "at least this means that Sandburg isn't being held by the murderer. You were right, Jim."

Ellison shrugged, accepting the tacit apology, then promptly added, "Maybe not. But someone has him, and I don't like the feeling I've got about it."

Banks rolled his eyes. "Are you going psychic on me now, too?" he asked sarcastically. "And don't give me any bullshit about you and Blair being 'mystically connected' or some such crap. Look, Jim," he added as Ellison shrugged. "You were right this time. But this means that Blair isn't in this psycho's hands, which puts him out of immediate risk. That makes him a secondary concern, whatever you feel." He plowed on as Jim tried to break in. "I'm not saying give up on looking for him. But we've got a serial murderer here who's playing for keeps, and I need you on this case, full-time. All right?"

Jim looked out across the city, Blair's absence plucking at him like an unresolved chord. Simon had a point, but he was still wrong. Blair was in danger, immediate danger. He could feel it. He took a breath. "I'm still looking for him, Simon." This time he plowed on over Banks' objections. "But I hear you. The murderer is top priority." _Too_ , he added silently.

Simon sighed. "If that's the best I'll get, I'll take it."

Jim nodded. "It's the best you'll get."

Simon sighed again. "Get out of here."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Well, at least he was alone again, for the moment. Caryn had left the house after finishing her chant, only returning some fifteen minutes ago. Blair could hear her singing in the other room, but so far she'd left him sitting in the dark, literally.

8:00… Actually, Blair mused, probably 8:15. His internal clock was pretty good, honed by living with people who judged time as it passed rather than by the hands of a timepiece, and the clock in the other room had recently chimed the hour.

He deliberately inhaled and held it, then released it, managing a small sigh with the breath. He let his gaze roam the room, feeling his lips lift ever so slightly in a smile at the renewed freedom. He couldn't move yet, but he was closer. A whole lot closer – an hour, two hours, maybe less.

He couldn't help tensing slightly when Caryn entered, and quickly forced himself to relax, staring straight ahead and trying not to react to her. The last thing he needed was for her to recognize that the drug was wearing off – he'd be willing to bet that a second dose might kill him, but she might not know that. Or care.

She was humming a tune he recognized as one of the tribal chants, and he watched as she uncoiled the yarn from his picture, dropping it into a bowl she'd brought with her and deliberately submerging it in the dark liquid he could just glimpse as she set it on the alter. Blair swallowed, a sudden hunch blooming in him about the upcoming ritual.

Her voice strengthened and she chanted a few lines in the tribal language before extracting the dripping yarn and moving toward Blair, her eyes wide and focused.

It took a few minutes for the anthropologist to translate the lines – after all, he hadn't heard the language for at least three years. But once he had he couldn't suppress the small shiver that raked down his body. "The yarn holds the power of death and the power of command. It is sealed to my desire by my blood, and so I command that it shall seal this one's powers to me and to my use."

Blair forced himself to sit unmoving as she slowly wrapped the soaked yarn around his throat, fighting shivers as the liquid dripped cold down his chest. _Great. Her blood. By her rules, I can't even fight her now_.

 _But I don't believe her rules_ , he cautioned himself, testing his own returning control over his body as she turned away. It took a lot of concentration, but he moved a finger, quickly relaxing it as she whirled on him, fury abruptly overwhelming her.

"Now," she shouted, advancing on him with quick steps, "you are mine! And I shall return the _ee'ekll'ad_ to the tribe cleansed, and my place with them shall be assured!" Grabbing up a small figurine, she waved it in his face.

 _Huh?_ Blair blinked at the object. _That's the fetish they give someone when the tribe feels the person is ready to move on down their road. They must've decided she'd learned enough with them and it was time for her to come back home. What's that got to do with me?_

"You shall be unable to foul their powers now, and my task will be accomplished and they will welcome me back into the tribe!"

 _Good grief!_ Blair thought, unable to halt the startled jerk at her words. But Caryn was pacing the room, proclaiming her statements to the powers, and didn't even look at him. _She thinks that they gave her a task to clean that object of something I did, and then she'll be able to return to the tribe? Oh, boy, has this lady lost it but good!_

"And I shall hold power in the tribe, and they shall listen to my commands, until my place equals yours, nay, surpasses yours, for I will have your power and mine together, and…"

Blair tuned out the words, a desperate chill running through him. The words sounded like they came out of a poor imitation of Shakespeare, but the irrationality behind them was frightening, all the more so because of the resemblance to his former experience. _At least with Lash I could use words as weapons; I could use my knowledge of his past and his methods against him. But Caryn…_

Caryn was beyond words and beyond reason, and the drug kept him silent anyway. _This is not good. Not good at all. Oh, man, Jim, come find me. Please?_

But Jim didn't know about Caryn at all, and he'd probably think Blair had been kidnapped by the serial murderer. He was probably going nuts right about now, but he'd have no reason to look anywhere but the obvious places. Escape was up to Blair.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"They were weak," the pharmacist said contemptuously. "Weak and impure."

"So what did you do?" The police officer across from him stared at him without blinking, while his partner leaned against the wall by the door.

The man smiled widely. "They're real men now."

In the observation room on the other side of the one-way mirror, Jim shifted impatiently, eyes on the clock in the interrogation room. Its hands splayed to indicate nine pm. He had run a background check on the pharmacist around an hour earlier, finding that he'd moved recently from Arizona, and that was enough to pick him up for questioning, which they'd done. Now it definitely looked like they had their man. And there was no sign of Blair, and the echoes of his absence drummed in Jim's soul.

"Criminally insane," said Alyx Smythe gloomily from beside him. The police psychologist eyed the man in the room, who was now pounding on the table to punctuate his yells.

"I think insane about covers it," Jim said dryly. "Never mind the criminal part."

She nodded, sighing. "He seems to think that any male who gives up smoking emasculates him by doing so."

Jim blinked at her. "Well, that's crazy, all right."

She grimaced. "I hate to think what must have happened to him as a child."

Jim shrugged. "At least he's in custody now. You're sure he's the serial murderer?"

Frowning, she hooked her hair behind her ear with a finger. "Ninety-nine percent sure, anyway. He fits the profile to a T, and though ordinarily I wouldn't take a confession from a man like him as solid evidence, in this case he knows some details we haven't released to the press. I've already recommended getting a warrant to search his house."

"Already done," said Simon tired voice behind them. Closing the door behind himself, he moved up to join them, staring at the man under question. "The evidence in his house is conclusive. Evidently, there was a whole room he devoted to his murders, and given what's left–"

"Please," Alyx said, looking slightly green. "I _don't_ want to think about it."

Jim and Simon shook their heads in unison. "Anyway," said the captain, "we've got more than enough to book him for the murders, and I _don't_ think he'll get out on bail."

"Good," Alyx said with heartfelt strength.

Jim just grunted, his eyes on the clock. Ten minutes past. "Can I go now, Simon?"

Simon nodded, turning to him. "Jim, about Blair–"

Jim shrugged, turning toward the door.

"There's no sign of him," said Simon heavily, following him out of Alyx's earshot. "You were right, I was wrong, and I'm sorry."

Jim sighed and clasped his shoulder. "Forget it, Simon. Let's just concentrate on finding him."

Simon nodded. "Anything I can do, Jim, just tell me. I know what he means to you."

 _Not really_. "I will, sir. I've got some leads to follow, so if you need me, use my cell phone."

"Okay," Simon said, then, pausing, added uncertainly, "Jim, maybe you should go get some sleep, start fresh tomorrow."

Jim shook his head. "No, Simon. Something's going down tonight; if I wait till tomorrow, it'll be too late."

Simon opened his mouth for a caustic comment, then closed it. "All right, Jim. Just– Give me a call if you need help on this, all right? And let me know when you find him, whatever the hour."

Jim smiled briefly at him, nodded, and slipped out the door.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Blair carefully, quietly reached touched the floor with the toe of his shoe, then flexed his fingers. Glancing around the dark room, he inhaled, then sighed silently. Caryn had vanished from the room around nine o'clock, and it was now 9:30. Blair figured it was now or never, and he preferred not to think about the "never" part.

 _Just give me a little time here_ , he thought, sliding off the bed as silently as possible. His knees folded as he landed, and he caught the bed-frame to keep his feet. It took a few moments, but finally he slowly loosed the handholds, keeping a hand ready to grab them again if needed. Trying to move quietly, he edged toward the door, nervously eying what he could see of the next room through the entryway. A small lamp made most of it visible, but it had the feel of being empty.

 _God, I hope it is. I'm in no shape to fight Caryn right now_. He edged his way through the entryway, noticing absently that it had been modified into the form of an arch. The room beyond was empty, and he took a small breath, glancing around and frowning. No windows. Was he in a basement of some sort? Looking at the door on the other side of the room, his eyes narrowed. If he were, that door might lead to stairs, where he'd be easy to ambush.

He shrugged and started across the room, stumbling as his balance wavered. Didn't matter; it was the only way out.

The next few minutes were a blur. He heard another door open behind him and whirled, catching his balance with a jerk. He only got a glimpse of Caryn standing in what was obviously a bathroom hidden behind a bearskin on the wall before she broke into a run toward him. Turning back, he sprinted toward the stairwell door, trying hard not to stumble. But she reached the door just as he did, and he frantically shoved her aside as he grabbed for the knob, panic shooting up his spine as it slipped in his sweat-slick palms.

He had only a split second warning as he saw her hefting a heavy figurine with his peripheral vision, and it wasn't enough to dodge her blow completely. Still, he managed to stay conscious, though the world hazed slightly as he hung onto the doorknob. But the second blow was right on target, and he couldn't keep his grip on the doorknob, sliding down into darkness.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Jim sighed wearily, wiping his brow with his arm as he paused in front of yet another small store. His gaze caught his glowing wristwatch dial as he lowered his arm, and he sighed again, shoulders tightening. 11:30. Time was going fast, too fast. He'd made copies of Melissa's sketch and had started posting them in ever-widening circles around the pharmacy. When consulted, Melissa said she was fairly sure the woman hadn't had a car, which meant that she might live in the area – providing, of course, that she hadn't used public transportation. But given the state of public transportation in Cascade, Jim was willing to bet that she lived in the area. And if she did, then she was likely to patronize other stores nearby as well. He hoped.

But it was the only lead he had, though he often had to fight the urge to follow Simon's suggestions and go look up possible enemies who might've gotten out of jail. But whenever he was ready to give up his current search and head back to the precinct to check out that possibility, an inner surge of… something kept him going on. Blair was waiting for him. He knew that, and he knew, somehow, that he was nearby. If he gave up on that inner knowing, if he listened to Simon's doubts and his own occasional skepticism, then Blair would die. It was that simple.

So he turned into the small general store, tiredly heading toward the single cashier, readying his question and the next copy of the sketch.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Yeah," said the cashier, an older woman with tired lines around her eyes. "Yeah, I know her."

Jim blinked at her, so stunned by her ready recognition of the sketch that his brain took a moment to catch up. "You do?" he stuttered. "I mean, you've seen this woman, here? Recently?"

A wary look clouded her eyes. "Maybe. Who are you, mister?"

Jim took a deep breath, putting his brain back in gear, then placed the sketch on her desk and extracted his wallet, flipping it open to the badge. "Cascade PD," he said soberly. "She's wanted for questioning in a kidnapping case."

The wariness slid into a wide-eyed look that Jim was all too familiar with. It was the expression of someone suddenly in the middle of a scenario only dreamed of. She took the sketch and stared down at it, then nodded. "Yeah, I've seen her. Last few days, in fact." She glanced up at Jim. "Who's been kidnapped? A kid?"

Jim shook his head, his inner sense of Blair thrumming and he glanced at his watch. 11:40. "My partner," he said bluntly.

She inhaled, her gaze sympathetic. "Let's see," she said thoughtfully. "She was in here… Was it last night? No, night before. She was singing – does that a lot," she said in reaction to Jim's raised brows. "She bought a few things and left."

"Does she live around here?" Jim asked, trying to keep his hope in check.

She frowned. "I don't know. She never drives, though, so I'd think she's from around here."

"What makes you so sure she doesn't drive?" Jim asked, frowning.

She motioned to the parking lot outside. "Whenever anyone parks, or pulls out, their lights shine right in my eyes. Kinda hard to miss."

Jim frowned and turned to look. A car swung into the lot at that moment, and he blinked away from the glare, turning back to eye her with appreciation. "Yeah," he agreed. "So she walks."

She nodded. "Always turns left outside– Wait a minute!"

Grabbing a key from a drawer, she turned to the cabinet behind her, opening it with excitement. "Brad was supposed to drop off the weekly deposit today, but he came down with the flu, so…" She dug out a deposit bag and smiled, unzipping it and hauling out a handful of checks. "Now let's see…"

Seconds later she held out a check to him, smiling. He grabbed it, read the name and address on it and returned her smile. "Mind if I keep this? You'll get it back."

She nodded. "I don't think Brad will mind."

"Thanks," he said, already at the door.

"Hey," she called as he exited, "bring your partner by when you find him, okay?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Police! Cascade PD!"

There was silence, and darkness was intense behind the splintered door. Jim paused for a moment, focusing, then started into the house, moving through the rooms with all the speed his sentinel sight could give him. Blair's heartbeat drummed faintly in his ears.

Finally, pacing into the dining room, he sniffed, then knelt. Even sentinel sight couldn't give color to the dark smear on the floor, but the smell was intense to his heightened senses, and he grimaced.

"Damn," he whispered as he stood, flipping on the light as he closed his eyes. A few minutes later he opened them, looking down at the red smear on the floor, obviously fresh within the last twenty-four hours. He sighed, a chill crawling up his spine as he measured the bloodstain with his eyes. It didn't take much blood to make a small smear, but still…

He inhaled and held it, then looked around, sniffing again. Faint, very faint, but… He stepped over to the trash basket and bent, carefully extracting the cellophane wrap from the detritus. He sniffed cautiously, then gagged; definitely the wrapper for the paralysis drug.

11:47. Dropping the wrapping back into the trash, Jim looked around helplessly. No Blair, no Caryn Watson, no nothing, and him at the end of his rope, with no trail and no leads.

"Damn it, Sandburg, where are you?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Blair fought his way up the ladder, consciousness simmering just… about… there! His eyes cracked and he squinted against the bright candlelight, quickly testing himself out.

No drug this time; he was bound hand and foot, lying in bed again, and he could still feel the yarn wrapped around his throat. He blinked, raising his head to peer at his surroundings.

Caryn stood with her back to him, facing the altar, chanting softly. Another noise accompanied her words, and it took him a moment to realize that it was the sound of a knife being honed. He swallowed dryly.

There were candles everywhere, on every surface, making the room almost as bright as artificial lighting would have. He slanted a glance down at himself, tension gripping his stomach as he saw his bonds – velvet cords, red and black. _Blood red and night black_ , he corrected himself. _Blood to bind me, night to silence me_. A large candle sat at his feet, and if he strained his eyes he could just see the one at his head. The one at his feet was black, and he knew the one at his head was probably red. He closed his eyes against the sight, dropping his head back on the pillow. _Damn_.

He shifted his gaze to Caryn, who hadn't seemed to notice his movement. At least she hadn't used the drug again; a second dose might well have killed him, and maybe she knew that. She turned to face him, her chant changing slightly, and his words died in his throat as he saw her blank, focused eyes. She was completely caught up in the ritual, and nothing he said would even exist for her.

She approached, holding a candle high in one hand, a small bowl in the other. Her eyes were on his, but he could tell she didn't see him. Lifting the bowl, she tipped it over him, scattering its contents down his body, from the crown of his head to his toes, then turned back to the altar. He shook his head as some of it drifted into his face, and then looked down at it, frowning. Dust, fine, black dust, and he grimaced, guessing that she'd collected it from a hallowed place and performed rituals over it as well.

And he could feel it, too. Not as much as he knew a tribal native might, but he'd worked with this type of thing often enough for it to have some power over him, too. He thought about that. He couldn't break free physically; his wrists were already starting to fray and the cords were as strong and as tight as ever. Words were useless here; Caryn couldn't hear him and wouldn't listen if she did. That left the nonphysical, and Blair sighed silently. At least some of the power she had over him was because he believed in it; he'd spent all his life exploring the wild side of ordinary consciousness, and as an anthropologist he'd seen many variations on human control of that wild side. So how to fight it…

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Jim threw the table over with a crash, eyes on the wood-paneled floor, then moved on to a dresser. The other rooms in the house already looked like a disaster area, and he was praying that this one, the last one, held the key to the underground area he felt sure was the answer to Blair's location. Damn it, his friend was there, somewhere, very close. He could feel it, could hear a whisper of his heartbeat; all he had to do was find the door…

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _Denial_ , Blair mused. _Metaphysical power rests on belief. Take away the belief, and poof! The foundation vanishes. Denial is the key_. He looked up at Caryn, who was brushing down his body with a handful of jet black feathers, their edges tinged with red. _So deny_. He stared at her, focusing only on the actions, trying to see them as mere gestures, used for a delusional mind, with no power of their own. They were just feathers, that was all, red and black, blood and night–

He caught himself with a jerk, shaking his head to banish the image. _Now come on_ , he chided himself. _I've done visualization exercises ever since I can remember. This is no different_.

Narrowing his eyes at her, he focused again. They were just feathers, probably from some crow, painted with red dye. And the candles were just that, candles, probably bought at a corner drugstore, nothing obscure or powerful about them. Artificially dyed, commercially created, mass-produced. A part of his mind spun the curious question as to whether a candle could be a more powerful ritual tool if it were produced from natural substances, and he quickly dropped the thought.

Just normal, common objects, possessing no power of their own, and certainly no power from her. She had no power; it was all delusions. She created a ritual and fantasized about its effect. He looked at her, pity moving through him as he saw her just as a woman who needed help.

Caryn's steady feather sweep down his body wavered, then steadied. Blair drew a breath, smiling, and felt a surge of confidence. This could work!

She had no life, no hope, and no center. He seized on that last, seeing her hand tremble. Without a center, without self-knowledge, what kind of magic could she work? Nothing real, nothing powerful, could spring from falsehood, either falsehood to self or others. Ritual built on such claims was based on the thinnest of strands, and the universe would not hold them past their genesis.

Caryn dropped a feather, her hand visibly shaking as she picked it up. She had to try twice before her fingers could close around its shaft, and she looked down at Blair, her features tight. _She's afraid of me_ , he realized, another spurt of confidence running through him. _And she's angry_.

Anger and fear could not serve a strong ritual, and they weakened the purpose of the practitioner. The only solution was to change the emotions into others, shifting fear into excitement, anger into determination. _And she can't do that_.

Blair could feel his decision blocking Caryn's attempt to regain control, and he took a deep breath, his eyes holding hers. Her ritual was failing, his own strength growing, and he turned to that.

He could deny her power because his own was based on his own self-knowledge, and so he could turn her symbols against her. Red meant blood, the blood of life, and black meant night, the time to rest, to regain strength for the life of the day. Life and reflection, the dual base for power, his power.

Caryn dropped the feathers again, and he saw the tall leaping flames of the candle at his feet waver, shrinking.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Jim barreled down the stairs, leaping the last few steps with a reckless strength that almost threw him into the closed door at its bottom. Skidding to a stop mere inches from the portal, he carefully eased it open, stepping into a comfortable room that had all the appearance of a living space – never mind that it was twenty feet underground. Blair's hearbeat was solid in his ears now. The room was dark, and he paused fractionally as his eyes adjusted, then he tiptoed carefully across the carpet toward the candle-lit doorway at its far end. Stepping into its portal, he froze.

Blair lay on a raised hospital bed that diagonally faced Jim, surrounded by lit candles, cords crossing his chest, thighs and ankles. The suggestion of force that suggested sent Jim's pulse skyrocketing, but something kept him from barging in, and he frowned.

Blair didn't look or act like a victim; in fact, he was smiling, his expression triumphant. The woman facing him was shaking, silent tears running down her face, and Jim shook his head. What the hell was going on?

It took him a moment, but he soon realized that there was a battle being waged, and the forces used were almost visible. Against his will, his gaze dropped to his watch. 11:59.

"You lose," Blair said, his voice low and intense. Jim had rarely heard him so committed. "The power is not yours, but mine." The commanding tone startled Jim.

He remembered his mentor telling them both that Blair was a shaman now, and how they'd both wondered what that meant. Maybe this was part of it.

His chronometer flipped over, 11:59 shifting to 12:00, and at the same instant, Blair sat up, the cords falling away from him like so many broken strings. The silence in the room was like frozen shadows, and Jim discovered that he couldn't move even if he'd wanted to.

Caryn Watson's fists clenched and Jim drew a deep breath as the clock in the room in back of him started chiming. On the twelfth stroke the woman burst into enraged tears, grabbing the knife that lay on the altar and stumbling toward Blair, blade raised.

Jim found himself able to move again, and dove forward, halting the blade an inch from Blair's chest, and wrestling Caryn to the floor. She resisted fiercely at first, but as the echoes of the last chime died away, she abruptly collapsed, weeping bitterly.

Jim handcuffed her and stood, turning to face his partner. Blair looked up at him, unmoving. "Hey, Jim. Glad you could make it."

For a moment, Jim saw an expression in his partner's eyes that he didn't recognize. Old, wise and powerful, it was gone before he could react, and he looked down at his friend and shook his head, wordless.

Outside, sirens wailed.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Jim moved restlessly as the curtains lifted in the night breeze, then gave up on sleep, padding out to the balcony. Resting his arms on top of the wall, he pondered the city, sparkling around him, and remembering the last night he'd been out here.

A lot had happened since then, but at least one thing was the same. He reached for his partner's heartbeat and relaxed, smiling. Blair was home.

And it was home, again. He knew that the minute he'd walked back into the loft that evening. Only one day had passed since Blair had won the battle with Caryn and already his dirty socks were kicked behind the sofa. Jim supposed that Sandburg always hoped he wouldn't find them, but how he could hope that after so many times… In fact, if he hadn't known better, he'd swear Blair did it just to twist his knob…

And then there were his books, piled high on the dining room table. How the man read so many at all was beyond Jim, but how he used them all in one paper was completely out of his ken. "Sandburg–" he growled, determined to tell him off.

But when Blair looked up, the enthusiastic smile that greeted Jim made his heart drop to his boots. He had come so close to losing it all…

So he smiled, and decided to ignore the dirty socks, and the piles of books, and the bathroom towels that lay crumpled on the bathroom floor, and the music drumming in the corner of the room, and the–

"Sandburg!"

So now Jim smiled, luxuriously stretching in the cool night air. Home had never felt so complete, and he had never felt so… happy.

 

The End


End file.
